Free Kismet Story, Chapter 2

Kismet is a short story that went through many rewrites before I presented it as part of The Ridgewood Chronicles series several years ago. This version is basically the story at Amazon, told in 4 chapters before I decided to rewrite it, add more chapters, and change the ending. Enjoy.

“Stop that, Jane,” she says, as though I’m the one responsible for the electricity.

My name isn’t Jane. But I don’t tell her. It does no good to argue with her; I don’t know my name.

The mansion’s employees bring me to this parlor every morning to watch the traffic. Nurse Rachel hopes it will help bring back the memories of my past and fill an empty mind that’s become a blank slate. I’m supposed to write about anything that looks familiar, but nothing about Burkhart Mansion or the street outside looks even vaguely familiar.

Outside today, the snow-filled sloping lawn runs out to a large black iron fence where a snowplowed street lies beyond. There, an occasional large and angry-looking car or truck grumbles past me. I remember snow, but I don’t know why. Everything I know about myself—little as it is—came two months ago, after I awakened from a coma inside one of the large, upstairs bedrooms. Henry Burkhart, the man who owns this mansion, visited and told me about myself.

Henry is a cigar-smoking, black-haired man in his early forties with smartly styled wavy hair. He wore a shiny suit as dark as his steel-blue eyes that day, and a red silk tie that glistened bright against a white shirt. He spoke with an even, soothing voice, and gestured with clean white hands with manicured nails.

“It was a Sunday,” he told me, “nine years ago in August when I found you. I was hiking Myers Ridge, looking for arrowheads and whatnot.” He smiled pleasantly at me. “I’m an aggregator … a collector. Numismatist and philatelist, mostly.” I didn’t bother to interrupt him to find out what those words meant.

He said, “That’s when I found you unconscious and near death at the bottom of a ravine not far from the highway. I could tell your legs were broken, so I fashioned a stretcher with my jacket and got you to my car where I drove you to the hospital. You were nine years in a coma while the authorities tried to find out who you are. You had no identification.”

At this point, Henry looked me the way I imagine he looks at an unusual artifact. “No family has ever been found. That’s why the hospital released you to me.” He frowned then, as though discovering a flaw in me. “Your fingerprints have revealed nothing, which isn’t a bad thing. It simply means we may never know who you are … unless your memory returns. Until then, you’re a living Jane Doe, which is why I call you Jane.”

I saw no malevolence on his face when he said, “Until your memory returns or someone recognizes you as family, my home is yours.”

I managed to tell him how thankful I was. I still am.

Heather skipped a few months ahead. There, the handwriting became stronger—familiar.

The weather is stormy. I don’t care for lightning. My head hurts when there’s a storm.

Henry is overseas on a business trip. The war over there has everyone on edge.

I saw Sara’s teacher for the first time today. I watched curiously from my wheelchair as Doris the housekeeper answered the door and let in Sara’s red-haired teacher. After Miss Johnson removed her fur coat and gave it to the housekeeper, she came to Nurse Rachel and me waiting for the elevator. She ushered a friendly good morning to us, whereupon I sensed a familiarity with the woman. It wrestled with the constant cloudiness in my mind as something—a memory, I think—tried to surface. The clouds parted for a moment and I saw Miss Johnson dead, lying in an open coffin. I knew I was seeing Miss Johnson in the future because her face and hands appeared very old.

“I saw the uncanny resemblance in you and Sara when you and Brian moved here. Sara never resembled anyone in the Burkhart family. That was the tip-off. She eventually had her blood tested and discovered that Henry Burkhart was not her father. She finally sent some DNA to a friend who does genetic testing. The results came back last week.”

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Steven Leo Campbell

I am an artist and indie-author. I draw and paint wildlife, draw cartoons, and write mostly paranormal fiction featuring Vree Erickson and a strange Pennsylvania town called Ridgewood.
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